If a Man Talks Shit Then I Owe Him Nothing

The first installment of my memoir book thing

The first thing my supervisor said to me when I was getting settled in as a clerk was “I thought you were going to be in a wheelchair. I was wondering how you were going to fit through the doorway.” I stared at her for a beat, unsure of how to respond. On one hand, she was my supervisor, and I was brand new, so I couldn’t be shooting off my mouth, but on the other, I was wondering how someone could be so callous and stupid to say something like that.

“Nope,” I finally said, “not in a wheelchair.”

“Well, you were hired under Schedule A, so I guess I was just confused. They didn’t tell me anything about you after your interview.” Ah, Schedule A, the perfect hiring authority to hire someone with severe physical or mental disabilities. It was the right hiring authority for me and yet…I felt slimy applying under it. Like I was wearing a skin that wasn’t mine. At first, I didn’t even want to apply under the authority; I wanted to make it on merit, on my own accomplishments, and not on a condition that I had no control over. But, after some advice from people in my life, I gave in and applied and, obviously, got the position.

But I didn’t expect my condition to essentially be thrown back into my face, incorrectly at that, once I started.

“Well, I’m disabled,” I continued, “technically. I mean, I have a chronic condition that is rare and has technically defined me as disabled.” Why was I still explaining myself, I wondered? And why did I keep using the word technically? Was I hoping to make the whole thing better? Was I hoping to show that I wasn’t really disabled, it was just a byproduct of being medically compromised? A title that I never wanted?

That wasn’t even the first time something like that happened to me. In fact, I wasn’t selected for the position I applied for previously – different company – because I went to the interview with a boot on my foot from a surgery I was still recovering from. When the interviewer asked me what happened, I told them the truth: I had surgery. And those gaps in my resume? More surgeries. But I think what really sealed my fate was when the interviewer asked me if I was planning on having any more surgeries. I, one of sharp whit and an even sharper tongue, shot back “well, I didn’t plan to have these ones, so I don’t know.” Not my finest moment, I’m sure, but shame on them for asking that. I’m pretty sure that’s a crime, and if I knew that back then, I would’ve called him out on it.

There’s always this strange balance when it comes to having a chronic condition. Especially when you don’t fit the stereotype of the disabled person. It’s like forever walking on a razor’s edge of how much to tell, and to whom. How much of my real self do I reveal, and where’s that moment then it’s too much and will actually work against me I’ve spent my whole life, in one capacity or another, on that tightrope, my hands outstretched to keep me upright. One false move and who knows what will come crumbling down around me.

One of my biggest flaws is that I’m a people pleaser. I always want to do the right thing, complete the work correctly, make people proud of me. It started when I was kid, usually where something like this always starts. I always wanted to be the good kid – do the schoolwork without being asked, clean up my room before I got in trouble. Stay out of the way if I could. It wasn’t anything that my parents did to make me this way, but I think somewhere in my mind I already knew that I caused more of my parents’ worry than my sisters did. Between hospital stays and emergency room visits, nobody knew what was right around the corner. Doctor’s appointments were ripe with tension until we got the all clear, and then it was smooth sailing until the next visit a year later. That is, unless there was another surgery planned, or a procedure – apparently that’s different, though I got cut up all the same.

I figured that I couldn’t control the medical stuff, so instead I hyper focused on what I could control (which would come to bite my in the ass later on). I tried to fit into a little box, always doing what was expected, always making sure my parents were happy, because if they were happy then they weren’t worried. And if they weren’t worried, that meant that I didn’t have to worry.

Do you see the never ending cyclone that was my childhood?

My good girl, get it done attitude followed me through my formative teenage years, through college (graduated cum laude, thank you very much), and into what I now call my fraught adulthood. Which each passing year, I understood more and more that my condition would hold me back; if not because of the complications that came with it, then because of the biases of people around me. Not only did I have to be the best candidate for the job, skills wise, but I also had to assure people that I was the right person for the job despite my medical condition. Despite the doctor's appointments and surgeries, or the tests that I had to take time off for. Oh, don’t forget the physical limitations that come with this condition.

Nine months after a started a new position at work, a Human Resources position that I was actually excited for, I had to tell my boss that I needed another surgery. I was never supposed to need this surgery; I had the same surgery two years prior – a foot surgery that landed me in an a cast and then a boot – and when asked if I should get the surgery concurrently to ward off any issues, the doctors were sure that it wouldn’t happen again. I wasn’t showing any signs of discomfort, so it was like the saying if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.

Except it was broke.

And two years later I was seeing the same doctor and getting ready for the same surgery. All I had to do was tell my boss that I would be out for three weeks and then back to work with a boot for three more weeks.

Easy, right?

I figured my boss, a woman a few years older than me who was recovering from her own medical struggles – cancer and surgery that resulted in remission – would be understanding. After all, she knew my background. Being the supervisor of Human Resources, she knew when she hired me that I was hired under Schedule A. There was still a letter in my file from my doctor – a letter that she had locked up for safe keeping. My medical condition wasn’t a surprise to her.

Yet, when I told her that I needed the time off and explained what was happening, she acted like it was a personal slight towards her. Like my time off was nothing more than an inconvenience. She had this air about her, this I worked my ass off while sick so you should be able to, too mode that seemed to work against me instead of with me. When I thought she would be understanding, I got nothing but contempt.

She looked at me like she was disappointed in me.

I took the time off, and felt horrible for it. I felt like I was letting her, and the rest of my team, down. Before I left, she made me write out everything I had going on so she could distribute my workload around my co-workers. So, while I was gone, al I could think about was all the work I was forcing my colleagues, people who I considered my friends, to do the work I couldn’t do. Their plates were already full, and I was just heaping more on top until it threatened to topple over.

I know I had all the rights to take off, and that that surgery was important, but back then I hated having to do it. I hated having to show the chink in my armor that was my medical condition. I felt like I was in the middle of the room, naked, ripe for the judgement of others. When I finally returned, boot and all, my co-workers unceremoniously dropped my work back on my lap and didn’t look back. It didn’t matter that I could still barely walk, and it was more of a hobble than a walk. They turned their backs on me and always ended up ‘too busy’ to help me anymore.

Maybe it was shitty of them, but I don’t blame them. Though three weeks doesn’t seem like a lot, but when you have more work coming in than you have going out, it might as well be an eternity. When. I came back, I came back with gusto. I threw myself at my work, trying to make sense of where my co-workers left off. I prepped for meetings with my supervisor, making sure I had all the information she needed before she could even ask. I had three weeks to make up for and I’d be damned if I didn’t show her that I was one of her best employees. In my mind, my favor with her was dimming, but if I worked hard enough, I could get it back up to where it was before I left.

I went as far as hobbling about a quarter mile at work, from one building to another, despite the pain in my still healing foot, just so I didn’t have to tell my boss there was yet another thing I couldn’t do. It took me twice as long to heal, for the pain to go away, as it would’ve if I let myself slack off for just a little bit. If I listened to my body versus to my weird sense of I have to prove myself that whispered in my brain.

I wish I could say it stopped there at work, but it didn’t. There were times I would get the side eye from my boss, and co-workers, when I would frequently get up from my desk and leave the room. Half the time it was because I couldn’t sit for long periods of time thanks to my back, and the other half of the time it was because I had to use the bathroom. Water was (and still is) an essential part of keeping everything running a bit smoother underneath my skin. I needed to drink a lot of water to make sure my blood flowed correctly and was getting to my heart. Well, the more water I drank, the more I had to use the bathroom So, up and down I went, wearing a path into the weird scratchy carpet beneath me.

I knew my boss was watching, but there was nothing I could do. What was I supposed to do? Get a letter from my doctor explaining why I had to drink so much and why that caused me to go to the bathroom so much? If she’d asked me about it, I would’ve told her. But, instead, she decided to give me the side eye and make it very clear she didn’t approve of my bathroom time.

Yeah, well I didn’t approve of her judging me, so let’s just call it even.

As a chronically altered person, I spent most of my life justifying my existence. There always had to be a reason for what I was doing, or feeling. I had to assure friends that we were still friends even if I didn’t see them often. Or if our play dates were canceled because, surprise, I was running a fever and caught some bug (probably from that same friend!)

I thought it would get better once I got older, only to come to find out that the exact opposite happened; it got worse. The friends I made were drinkers – not too extreme, but they definitely didn’t shy away from having a drink or two (or four or five) at parties or even when we hung out. How many times had I scurried over to a neighbors house after work during the summer to lounge in her pool with our other neighbor and all of our families? When the clothes came off and the bikinis were on display, the white claws and solo cups came out.

I was never specifically told that I couldn’t drink – there were limits, of course, and I had to maintain those limits – but alcohol wasn’t prohibited. So, on the days I was in the pool, I took liberties in the limits and treated myself to a white caw or two. At birthday parties I would drink the sangria or Mike’s Hard Lemonade. It didn’t take much to get me tipsy, so I never had to worry about going over my limit. But then again it was never about the limit. It was about fitting in with people; it was about feeling normal for just a little while. To feel like I belonged somewhere when most of the time I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere.

But then that sort of limit became a hard line; I couldn’t drink, full stop. I was at this precarious position where I could stay healthy, or I could fit in. Obviously, it was a no-brainer. Clearly I wanted to fit in! Mike’s Hard Lemonade all the way!

Obviously, that’s not true. I chose my health because, was it really a choice? After that appointment with my helptologist, I told my friends that I couldn’t drink.

“You can’t drink?” D said as she swirled her wine around

“Nope.”

“For how long?

“Um, ever?”

They were quiet for a minute, probably wondering how I was going to do it; drinking was a normal activity in their circle and to have someone that didn’t drink…well, I think it was a bit of a shock.

“It’s because I have a liver that already has chirosis,” I prattled on. “And that means I’m always going to be at a disadvantage. I’m always going to have issues. And drinking is just going to make those issues worse.”

Why are you rambling? I asked myself. Why are you telling them about your liver? Why does it matter?

But it did matter. It mattered that they knew that it wasn’t me who was the problem but my liver. I was still fun. I was still friend material. We could all hang out and I wouldn’t make it weird, I promise!

“Okay,” R said. “We’ll just have to keep yours virgin.” I wanted to make some sort of joke there, to lighten the mood, but alas my sharp whit was a little dulled (maybe because of those white claws!)

Even though they said they understood, and clearly we still hung out, I felt like I became the wet blanket of the threesome. I couldn’t be as carefree and fun as they could be.

It was around the time I started exercising and eating healthy, another “helpful” suggestion from a doctor, that I realized it didn’t matter why I was doing it, just that I was doing it. And it was my decision to do it.

The conversation around getting healthier starting with my diet and exercise went basically the same way the drinking conversation went. When I got to the point where I realized that I was explaining myself to people who were supposed to be my friends and at least like me unconditionally, I stopped.

“I’m doing it because I want to,” I said instead. There was a beat of silence and then the congratulations came in. They were proud of me. They were envious of me. It was hard work and if I was willing to do it, that was awesome. So many nice things came out of their mouths once I stopped explaining myself and my decision.

Maybe they realized they were being weird, or maybe I stopped being weird, but somehow it just worked.

That was when I decided that I didn’t owe anyone anything. I didn’t owe an explanation to my decisions as much as they didn’t owe me one for their decisions (and there were some shady decisions made, let me tell you). It was enough that I wanted to do it, and that’s all they needed to know about it.

Of course, there were people in my corner who were always in my corner. A best friend who cheered me on from the get go; she herself had her own medical problems so she understood a little bit better what it was like to have to do things to stay healthy. Then there was my other friend who asked for advice so she could be healthy. I wasn’t alone in this, but I never thought to focus on the people who were next to me, no questions asked.

It’s easy to fall into the trap of explaining your existence to people. Justifying your actions because you have a condition, or you’re sick. I always felt like I needed an explanation at the ready because I never wanted to be known as a flake. I never wanted to be the unrealizable friend; I wanted to show up when I said I was going to show up. I wanted people to know that they could count on me. If they needed me, they wouldn’t get rid of me right? Wasn’t that the rule of thumb?

I wanted to have purpose in my friend group – if I had purpose, maybe I’d become invaluable to them.

I never stopped to think that just being myself made me invaluable.